Syria's homemade oil refineries

Plumes of black smoke rise up above the main road leading into the village of Msheirfeh in Syria's north east. Dozens of makeshift open-air refineries have sprung up here since the civil war began in 2011, as desperate locals turn to black gold to make a living. The conflict has changed the agricultural region irrevocably.

Most of the government-owned oil refineries have either been destroyed or taken over by militant groups. Demand for fuel is soaring, and the DIY roadside refinery industry is booming. But primitive techniques mean toxic gases are being released into the air, and leaking oil has contaminated soil and groundwater.

The workers produce oil, petrol and gas for the farming population caught in the middle of the conflict. Once the oil has been refined, it's poured into used petrol containers, ready to be sold. The men make around $33 (24 euros) per barrel.

The job is a dangerous one - the workers often fall ill, or can even be killed during the refining process. Fumes from the burning crude oil hang in the air, and explosions are frequent. Many suffer from skin rashes, burns, poison-related amputations, breathing difficulties, headaches, persistent coughs or eye infections.

Standing beside a pond of freshly-refined petrol, the worker on the left says he has trouble sleeping, "not because of the gun fighting in the plains, but because my body is itchy and I have had a lot of discomfort since I began working here."

The improvised refineries are often run by two people - usually relatives - who buy crude oil from Islamic armed forces in the Deir ez-Zor province. Many of the men wear rubber boots, as well as scarves to protect their faces. But this doesn't stop the black oil from staining their clothes, hair and skin. Breathing in toxic fumes, and getting burns and cuts, are daily realities here.

Before the war, many of these workers had other jobs. They were university students, farmers, public servants and school teachers, who were forced to find another way to make a living. Former farmer Nu'man Uthman, above, now runs this open-air refinery with his eldest son, Sherif.

This former teacher had to leave the school where he worked when the war broke out. Now, stoking the fire underneath his refinery, he reflects: "I miss being a teacher because I was useful to others. But in this job, I feel as useless as you could possibly think."